I shall call the pretty Jewess Leah, as I have good reasons for not using her real name.
While they were enjoying their meal I sat down beside her and tried to make myself as agreeable as possible, but she would not even look at me.
My supper was excellent, and my bed very comfortable.
The next day my landlord told me that I could give my linen to the maid, and that Leah could get it up for me.
I told him I had relished my supper, but that I should like the foie gras every day as I had a dispensation.
"You shall have some to-morrow, but Leah is the only one of us who eats it."
"Then Leah must take it with me, and you can tell her that I shall give her some Cyprus wine which is perfectly pure."
I had no wine, but I went for it the same morning to the Venetian consul, giving him M. Dandolo's letter.
The consul was a Venetian of the old leaven. He had heard my name, and seemed delighted to make my acquaintance. He was a kind of clown without the paint, fond of a joke, a regular gourmand, and a man of great experience. He sold me some Scopolo and old Cyprus Muscat, but he began to exclaim when he heard where I was lodging, and how I had come there.
"He is rich," he said, "but he is also a great usurer, and if you borrow money of him he will make you repent it."